OVERSIGHT PANEL ESTABLISHED — EMERGENCY TRANSPARENCY STATUTES INVOKED.
SUBPOENAS ISSUED — CAEDRIN VOL DIRECTIVES.
SENTENCING RESCHEDULED — EXPANDED AUTHORITY GRANTED.
I swallow hard and keep walking, because if I stop, I will feel it. I will feel how the building has changed—how the tribunalisn’t a machine anymore; it’s a wounded animal, cornered and snarling.
“Ardent!”
I turn and nearly collide with a messenger in tribunal gray, hair frizzed like they ran their hands through it a hundred times. Their eyes flick from my face to my badge like they’re checking I’m real.
“High Arbiter Drax wants you in Briefing Room Four. Now.”
“Briefing Room Four?” My voice comes out hoarse. “That’s?—”
“Yeah,” they say, breathless, “that one. The press staging room. Don’t ask me why. Just… go.”
They dart away before I can say anything else.
The press staging room.
That’s not where tribunal staff go unless the tribunal wants them on-camera, or wants to scare them into behaving as if they’re on-camera.
I start down the hall, boots clicking on the polished stone, and my senses keep snagging on details: the metallic taste of the air, the faint ozone tang from the shield generators, the way the lighting feels harsher today—like it’s trying to bleach reality into something simpler.
A door slides open ahead of me, and Senior Legal Architect Marris Thane steps out, face pale and tight, eyes glittering with the kind of anger that pretends it’s professionalism.
He sees me and slows—just enough to make it intentional.
“Well,” he says, voice dripping with polite contempt, “look who’s still employed.”
I keep my expression flat. “Not for lack of effort on your end.”
His nostrils flare. “Cute. You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not enjoying anything,” I say. My fingers curl around the compad so hard the edges dig into my skin. “People died. My job is to make sure the record doesn’t get… edited.”
Thane’s smile is thin as wire. “Your job was to support a tribunal. You turned it into a riot.”
“Yeah,” I say, and my pulse bumps like a fist against my ribs. “And your ‘clean’ prosecution turned out to be built on rot. So maybe we’re both having a weird week.”
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “You think the Oversight Panel is going to save you? You think transparency statutes mean anything when the Senate decides you’re a liability?”
I can smell his breath—caff and something minty trying to mask stress. “I don’t think it’s about saving me.”
“Oh?” His eyes flicker. “Then what is it about?”
I hold his gaze. “It’s about finally dragging the truth into the light, even if it burns.”
Thane’s jaw jumps. “You’re going to get yourself burned first.”
“Then stop standing so close,” I say, and walk past him.
My hands are shaking by the time I reach Briefing Room Four, but I refuse to let anyone see it. I tuck the tremor into my spine, lock my shoulders, and step inside.
The room is packed.
Not with the press—yet—but with tribunal officials, oversight liaisons, and security that looks like they’ve been told to expect someone to pull a weapon out of their sleeve. The lights are too bright. The walls are lined with portable holopanels showing scrolling legal language in neat columns—emergency transparency statutes, panel charters, jurisdiction clauses. It’s the kind of thing that looks boring until you realize it’s the foundation of a power shift.
